It was Me
by Darius
Summary: Kay's POV over Miguel's little "I thought you were Charity" speech. Needless to say: angsty. UPDATED with an angstier follow-up!
1. Default Chapter

"It was Me" 

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I have been one acquainted with the night.  
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.  
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

From "Acquainted With the Night" by Robert Frost

Don't you sit there and look at me with those deep, innocent brown eyes, looking worried and nervous, and tell me now that you didn't know. 

How could you not know? It was _me_. The girl who was your best friend since the third grade. The girl that joined the Harmony Hellcats softball team just to spend more time with you, even though I hated sports at the time. The girl who would help you through English class, through every class, sitting up with you the night before exams to coach you through all the notes. The girl who had loved you as long as she could remember, who was at your side every moment until _she_ came.

You look at her bright blonde hair and empty, vapid blue eyes, her pale porcelain-doll skin and see everything you've ever wanted. A girl who was sweet and innocent. Helpless. A soft, twittering princess for you to save, maybe. Everything I'm not.

I was like her once. Once, long ago, I bloomed in the promise of your love, bathed in the light of your affections. But I lost my innocence for you, after she came. I gave it willingly, sacrificed it on the all-consuming altar I'd built in your honor as I tried every dirty, filthy trick in every book to make you love me. I dragged my soul through real darkness and literal demons so I could reach you, through places crueler and colder then you could ever imagine. 

But I bore it willingly. My heart beat fast with every near-triumph, and I imagined how you would take me in your arms and whisper all the words I'd always wished for. No trial was too great, no price too painful. But in the end my innocence was the price. It had to die slowly these past few years, in painful, gasping fits and in slow, writhing crawls in the face of constant failure. And in those nights spent alone that burned and seared like the hell I've been through. 

And yet, a few nights ago, I managed the greatest trick of all. I put on her face, that perfect princess mask of ivory and gold you so desired, and wore it, close to me, like a shadow. I cast away all my inhibitions, (and my clothes) let them flutter to the ground like the last dark leaves of November. I spoke with her honeyed voice. I smiled with her rose-red lips. And I let every last dream I'd ever had die except the one of your love. 

That night you weren't with her, and you know it. Her essence might have clouded my face, obscuring the physical, but my muddied soul burned brightly. The feel of my very _self_ in her pallid body must have been as searing and unexpected as a heat wave in December, and equally as unmistakable. It was fed by the entwining flames of passion, lust, and love each of us held for the other. All those aching years I'd spent yearning from afar came blazing into one magical, pulse-pounding night. And you felt it as I moved against you, as I gave you all love that had been frozen inside of me, waiting desperately to be freed. The final barrier between us, the two who had shared so much before _she_ came, finally shattered that night, exploded, melted in the heat of our dual passion, and all that I felt for you bled hotly from my lips, my heart, and from my own stained and battered soul.

So don't look at me like that, creasing your brown in confusion, telling me in that kind, earnest tone that we were "victims of a spell". The magic that helped me slip on her skin only revealed to us both that the feelings that tortured me in secret for years are reciprocated. By you, although you now try to deny and hide it. 

It was me that night. I was the one you made love to, and you know it. You felt the connection, that icy, sweet fire burning us both, what you and your sweet little porcelain-doll princess can never share. Mine was the name you whispered in my ear as the moon rose, as I wore her lily form, your breath as gentle on my ear as the first stirrings of a butterfly breaking out of a glittering chrysalis. From deep in the your throat, from the warmth of your heart discovering my own, came a single, hushed word. 

"Kay."


	2. Blasphemy

"Blasphemy"

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I can see it; I can feel it   
Rushing in my veins.   
I don't like it, I don't hide it   
See it in my face.   
But I... don't want, to wait...   
For I... have lost, my faith.

Where can I find myself an idol?

From Amanda Ghost's "Idol".

It's disgusting.

The way Father Lonigan preaches about the sickly sweet infatuation that is the "love" of Miguel and Charity. It sickens me, brings bitter bile to my throat that burns like acid. Don't look at me with those dead milky eyes, old man. They only prove how blind you are-- and in more ways then just the obvious one. 

Don't preach to me about God. I've heard it all before, trust me. What's more, I've been there. I've sat in the pews like a good little girl all my life, staring at Miguel's dark head, just a few polished rows ahead of me. The stained glass and sunlight would dapple bright rainbow hues across his smooth, handsome face during the Mass. And as a little girl I'd clutch my rosary until my palm bled, and a searing red imprint of the cross lay burning across my hand. 

So don't tell me about good and evil, and how I can save my soul. I gave up on that a long time ago. About when _she_ came to town, actually. Where were you when that happened? Where were you when my soul started slipping away, and my heart tortured me with every sharp, cutting beat at the sight of those two? Oh wait, I remember now. You were fawning over your precious Charity, along with my family, my friends, and everyone else in this God-forsaken little town.

God-forsaken. Apt little adjective, isn't it? 

But let's just get one thing straight. I didn't forsake God. He forsook _me_. Why was my every fervent, silent prayer to get the one person who mattered the most to me always ignored? Why did all Miguel have to do was see Charity and he was automatically in love, when I was his adoring, constant companion for years? I guess God plays favorites. Funny, they didn't teach me that in bible school. And forgive my "blasphemy", but I don't think I want to worship a deity who rules like that. A God who is that unfair. 

So I don't think I'll be going to church anymore. Or praying either, even when those brats Simone and my sister shriek of evil. Because I've seen evil. It's in the face of a God that couldn't care less about me or how deeply and truly I love.

That means I'll be moving away, from you and everyone else who blindly follows. I'll be going somewhere where I can make my own rules, make things fair, and control my own destiny, instead of having it crushed and stamped all over me. It's not a physical place, oh no. It's a state of being. I've felt it before, but back when I was still afraid. Back when I was still clinging to the tattered, skeletal remnants of a faith I should have forgotten a long time ago.

Because it was like . . . ebony lightening crackling and streaking all through me, racing madly through my veins, coursing deep into my shaking bones and kissing my very marrow with an aching, seductive smile. And it softly washed away the pale silver scar I carried across my hand.

It was a dizzying power that ran hot and cold, searing and freezing my flesh, rushing with incredible force to my brain and exploding fiercely into a million tiny, glittering supernovas. And they all shrieked to my exulting nerve endings all that I ever knew of happiness, fulfillment, and of a dark, rich beauty that reminded me of a night without stars. It even told me how I could possess it. All of it. I just had to surrender-- and let it possess me.

So now, this is transcendent moment-- holy, and completely, starkly pure. Don't try to get away, Father. And don't think you can outrun me, you blind, doddering old fool, you can pray as loudly as you want. It's not going to stop the power I can feel, warm and uncurling from deep within me, gushing all the way to my sparking fingertips. 

I guess you must not be one of His favorites. 

Don't worry, I only want to thank you properly for helping me cross this final threshold. I couldn't have done it without you, you know. All your preaching and prattling really must have meant something to me, because I'm ready to surrender now-- and a sacrifice is needed. A blood sacrifice. 

And this stirring, sacred power tastes . . . like a heaven I've only dreamt of. 

****

End 

(_The Fine Print_: Nope, don't own a thing from "Passions"! If I did, Theresa would be dead, and would STAY that way. Hee.)


End file.
